


I Know You In Summer

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Obscurus Books AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: "The little bell tinkles and sun filters into the dim surroundings of the little shop, filled with dusty tomes and quietly squeaking floorboards. There isn’t anyone about, and Percival hears his heartbeat pounding rhythmically in his ears."





	I Know You In Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qBox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qBox/gifts).



His neck prickles under the starched white collar, and Percival’s fingers twitch in irritation, itching to tug his collar open lest he suffocate from the stifling hot air of summer in New York. Decorum and his pride however, prevents him from looking anything less than immaculate in front of his Department, less everyone suddenly decides that it’s all right to come into work with unkempt clothing just because it’s hot. So the collar remains buttoned up, and the tie remains snugly bound against his throat, chafing his Adam’s apple rather uncomfortably. He clicks his tongue in annoyance at the file open before him, and not for the first time, wonders why this seemingly insignificant case about an accident involving a No-Maj must be handled by the Director.

Sighing for what must be the nth time, he attempts to focus on the words before him, but the sweltering heat coaxes beads of sweat to gather around his neck and further distracts him from the case file. He’s about to give up reading the damn thing, when his gaze lands on something that makes him start for a bit. Why would a No-Maj be working at some place called Obscurus Books? He skims through the rest of the document, reading about how the No-Maj, a Peter Collins, suddenly turned up on the streets one day, babbling about magic, understanding now the risk of the wizarding community being exposed. It’s only due to sheer luck that one of the people who overheard Collins’ rant happened to be an Auror, who immediately wiped his memories and put a Tracking charm on him. So far, Collins isn’t giving them any more problems, but the fact that a No-Maj somehow came into contact with someone in the wizarding community has MACUSA on alert.

Seeing as there are currently no other leads to solving the case, Percival decides to pay Obscurus Books a visit, as well as take a breather from the stifling air of his office. A blast of hot air greets him as he steps out into the streets of New York, and he grimaces as he makes his way through the throngs of people to his destination. He supposes he’s grateful it’s not achingly cold at least; his bad leg is annoyingly sensitive to the cold, and even throbs during rainy days. His feet carry him through the familiar streets of his home, and he’s oblivious to the chatter and sounds of the bustling city, submerged within wisps of memories of his return to MACUSA. He doesn’t feel like  _himself_ , like the soul trapped in this body isn’t  _his_ , like the man staring back at him in the mirror isn’t  _him_. He doesn’t quite know who he is anymore, and from the tentative glances his people dart at him when they think he isn’t looking, no one else does, either. His lip curls in the irony of how he, once the second most powerful wizard in wizarding America, has fallen from such heights. No longer do people whisper his name in reverence,  _“Percival Graves, the war hero, the saviour of wizarding America”_. Now, his name is a curse on the lips of those he’s sworn to protect, whispered in fear because  _who’s to say he isn’t in league with Grindelwald?_

The little bell tinkles and sun filters into the dim surroundings of the little shop, filled with dusty tomes and quietly squeaking floorboards. There isn’t anyone about, and Percival hears his heartbeat pounding rhythmically in his ears. He walks cautiously through the expanse of the shop, curiously surveying the books lining the shelves haphazardly. Some feebly try to escape, but Percival can almost see the charms locking them in place, fine and translucent, and realises the dust isn’t quite dust, but rather the charms themselves. He reaches out idly, and one errant strand shies away from his touch, slipping back meekly into place with the rest of the charms.

There’s a quiet voice coming from behind him, and the hand that’s in his pocket tightens around his wand even as he turns around. Percival finds himself faced with a young man, whose face is pale as the gleaming moon in the night, and whose messy raven hair bears hues of dark blue in its strands because of how dark it is. His eyes trace the sharp turns of the lines that make up the young man’s face and marvelling at his beauty, much like the grand statues free from blemish that were carved by masters of art, and finally lands on the wary eyes of the boy, whose fingers twitch in uncertainty, and Percival almost smiles when he sees little sparks forming at the boy’s fingertips. Almost.

“Can I help you?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence in the shop before Percival reaches a hand out and the youth gingerly grasps the proffered hand in his. He gasps because Percival’s grip is  _tight_ ; what he doesn’t know is that Percival is gauging his magic, measuring how much of a threat he’ll be to the Auror, and when Percival releases his hand, the air is thick with magic and something that smells like wonder.

“Percival Graves. I’d like to ask you some questions, if you please, Mr…?”

“Barebone.” He blurts, “Credence Barebone.” Credence rubs the back of his head awkwardly, somewhat thrown off by the elegant man who suddenly appeared in his shop. His hand still tingles from the grasp, and while he’s almost certain it’s because this Mr Graves is a wizard, there’s something about the rough pads of the man’s fingers on his skin that sends thrilling little jolts throughout his body. His mind tells him to be glad that Ma isn’t here anymore; he can already hear her voice, reprimanding him about sinning and unnatural relationships with men, all the while taking out the dreaded belt that has known Credence’s flesh and broken skin and blood.

Percival sees the storm in Credence’s eyes, and wonders why the name Barebone seems familiar. But duty calls, and he cannot let listless thoughts about the quiet beauty the youth holds distract him from his work. “I wonder if you can tell me, Credence, why a No-Maj like Peter Collins would be employed in a book shop run by a man who is clearly a wizard? I don’t think I need to remind you that this is in clear violation of the International Statute of Secrecy.” Credence blanches, and the confusion plainly written on his face informs Percival of the fact that despite the immense magical power Credence has, the boy is clearly ignorant on the laws dividing the wizarding and non-magical community. His suspicions are confirmed when the lanky youth shakes his head mutely and stammers, “I-I thought it was fine to let him work here; I don’t do any magic in front of him, I swear! I didn’t realise that it was against the law. I’m sorry.”

Percival sighs, and as he leans against one of the bookshelves, Credence can’t help but be drawn to the lean lines of Percival’s lithe figure, and draws a mental comparison between the man and a panther, tightly coiled and ready to pounce at any time. “Are you aware of the fact that you are a wizard, Credence?” Said man purses his lips into a tight white line and nods, once. “Ma always said that magic is the instrument of the devil, and that I’m the bastard son of a witch who burned in hell.”

And it clicks. He understands why Credence’s name sounds familiar now. He can’t say he’s not unsurprised that the son of Mary Lou Barebone, the very same one Tina was investigating all those months ago, turns out to be a wizard. Percival’s voice is spidery soft in the quiet confines of the shop. “And no son of Mary Lou Barebone would have attended Ilvermorny, isn’t that right, Credence?” Another blank looks greets Percival, and he sighs, suddenly wishing he still smoked and that there’s a cigarette between his fingers. “Credence, am I right in saying you have no knowledge whatsoever about the wizarding community in America?”

There’s another terse nod from Credence, who looks very much like a child who thinks he’s about to be punished, that Percival can’t find it in himself to be remotely displeased with the younger man, not when his wide eyes are staring so woundedly at him, and for some reason, Percival finds his heart singing out to Credence. It’s an unfathomable call that has him wanting to help the younger wizard, despite having just met him mere minutes ago. Perhaps it’s the hurt he can sense festering within Credence, or the thick walls Credence has erected around him that Percival can clearly sense, blocking any attempts to search his mind. Whatever it is, it makes him reach out to Credence, wanting to know who this man with the despondent eyes is, who curls within himself and has closed his heart to the world, whose entire being oozes darkness that curl outwards in ominous tendrils of inky blacks and greys.

“I can help you, Credence, if you’ll let me. I can teach you about our world, about magic; you would no longer have anything to fear.”

Staring at the hand before him, scarred and calloused but  _warm_ , Credence remembers another man, bearing a face identical to the man before him, who has uttered similar words in silky tones and tender caresses. The man standing in front of him is nothing like the Percival Graves he has met; where that Percival was all seductive and sultry and hooded eyes that promised him the world and more, this Percival is stern and sincere, tongue bereft of pretty lies and eyes brimming with an earnest glow.

“He said the same thing once.”

“Who did?”

There’s a sad smile playing on Credence’s lips that doesn’t belong there, Percival thinks. “The man who wore your face. He told me I was a miracle, that I had a place next to him once he had control. And I believed him.” It’s in that moment that Percival’s heart falls to his feet, because Grindelwald has stolen yet another thing from him, and it’s an irrational fear, to mourn the loss of a possible friendship ( _or something more,_  his mind unhelpfully provides) with this scarred young man. Silence is a heavy drape that weighs their soul down, and both men stare at one another while the clock ticks in the background, loud and obnoxious. Eventually, Percival’s hand falls to his side, shying away from an unresponsive Credence. The former awkwardly tilts his head towards the young man as he readies to leave the shop, “Thank you for your time today Mr Barebone. I would advise you not to leave the city as we might still have some questions for you. My people will be in touch.”

He has one foot out of the door when a knobbly hand clasps his shoulder hurriedly. “Wait! Mr Graves!” Percival turns to see a frantic Credence holding him back, and his gaze is drawn to the pale pink of Credence’s lips as he worries the bit of skin. They stand there without a word spoken between them, and Percival gently nudges Credence, who starts and stumbles back a little. It’s only Percival’s warm grasp on his hand that prevents him from falling, and there’s a sharp burst of electricity surging through their joint hands that has Percival cursing and Credence yelping in pain, but they don’t let go. It’s over in a second and when they do let go, there’s a burn mark on Percival’s hand, miniscule and quite unnoticeable. A quick glance towards Credence reveals the same mark on his hand as well.

A chortle breaks free from Percival, and Credence blinks in confusion when he laughs, and it’s a loud sound that rings through the bookstore. The older man reaches out and traces the mark on Credence’s hand, sending a shiver down his spine at the lingering touch. “I dare say we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other Credence, whether you wish it or not.” Credence mulls it over, and when he sees Percival smile, small and unsure, he thinks he won’t mind seeing Percival more often. It’s he who proffers his hand to Percival this time, and the latter doesn’t hesitate to grip it in a firm shake, and the feeling of the slightly raised skin of the burn marks rubbing against one another fills Credence with a sense of hope he’s not felt in the longest time. He offers Percival a shy smile, one that is met with a wider smile that makes Percival’s eyes crinkle kindly, and Credence thinks Percival could quite possibly be the most handsome man ever. “Maybe you could stop by tomorrow, if you’re free? For the lessons, I mean.” He stumbles over his words in an effort to not seem overeager, “Only if you want to, I mean. I understand if you don’t want to, I just-” His rambling spiel is stopped by a finger to his lips, and Percival’s eyes twinkle brightly in the dim lighting of the bookstore, “Tomorrow then, Credence. I look forward to our meeting.”

Percival leaves then, with a gentle squeeze to Credence’s hand, and the air isn’t as hot as it was when he left the office. Still, his hand reaches up to his collar, and loosening the button there, tugs his tie down so that it hangs low on his chest, no longer neat and tidy and constricting. It’s on this summer day that Percival learns what hope tasted like once more, and Credence learns what joy feels like, and for the first time since Grindelwald, both men go to bed that night, whispering for dawn’s swift arrival.


End file.
